Loved and Lost
by Alaeryn
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy has lost the man he loves at sea. Will the two ever reunite? (Pirates! And slight PruFra.)


_D'aimer et De__Perdre_

After a while, even the beautiful bustle of Paris proved too much.

There came a time when Paris grew too worrisome and wrought with vague phantoms and twisted memories for Francis to bear even the countryside provided little to no comfort. There was no solace in those green hills, which fairly sang with sunlight and forced him to see-! There were certain lovers who had been burned into his being, and they would not be forgotten even in the countryside. Those mountains and valleys were witnesses to the most torrential love affairs! The average Englishman would blush to discover them ! But amongst these sordid tales of unrequited love and searing passions, there was one in particular which followed Francis like a shadow. It was this one which drove Francis away from home, this one which drove him to the ocean.

But even now, as dark descended upon the dizzying depths of the sea, Francis found himself haunted. The sea and sky had opened to him, an endless embrace of black, a diamond-crusted infinity, as they always had in the last several centuries. However, standing on the very polished deck of his powder blue frigate, Francis could not help but scan the huge horizon for the only man who kept his heart in a crushing, bloody vice-grip—Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. This was humilating to admit that was to be sure of all his lovers, to have one tower so soundly over all others ! Still, it had been a long time—too long—since Francis had enjoyed those sunny Spanish arms and those tender, tomato-sweet lips. They had been together in the most lurid, sinful bliss for a very long while, sun-bathing on France's white veranda, sharing quivering kisses in Spain's green gardens. Yet ! One morning, Antonio had disappeared Francis was left scouring the very ends of the earth for him. To these ends, France had gathered a hardy crew, thoroughly convinced Prussia to accompany him, and abandoned all of his responsibilities at home day after day, he received messages urging his swift return. He ignored every one.

At the very least, he was dressed fabulously. His sea-blue coat edged with gold was cut to perfection, so that the long frills of his white shirt peeked coyly from his sleeves and with dapper cheer at his chest. His sash, made with the finest black velvet, was wrapped securely round his waist while supporting a swinging, golden pocketwatch. His boots, too, were a fashionable marvel : they were black and shining, wrought in warm, supple leather and reaching up to his lovely knees. It was only a shame that the boots hid so much of his marvelous trousers, which were a rich blue hue—the bluest really. And this was without mentioning his grand three-cornered pirate's hat, which France wore with the purest pride and a flopping pink feather. It was true that France was bending beneath the weight of Spain's absence, but he had not broken—not just yet. He stood at the helm of his enormous ship, golden telescope in hand, searching the blackness for a hint of Antonio.

'Ah, Antonio ! ' France announced rather dramatically, to both no one and everyone at once. He pressed one cool, slender hand to his heated forehead. 'Ah, Antonio, why do you _torment_ moi so ? '

Prussia chose this moment to arrive on deck. He, too, was dressed in his best sea-going finery, though his white captain's shirt was open so brazenly at the chest that one could see clear to his navel. His red eyes glittered with mischief even in the deepening dark and, in the moonlight, his skin was so translucent that he could be mistaken for some hellish angel.

''Don't you zhink eet's time for leetle girls like you to be in bed ?''

''You're ruining my dramatic moment, Gilbert. Zat's very cruel of you, you know. Go ! Go ! Can't you see I am 'eartbroken ?''

-A familiar flicker in the distance ! The Spanish flag ? No. No. The unhappy curl of a wayward wave—

''At any rate, I can't geeve up so easily.''

''Oh ? Not so easily, eh ? Kesesese ! '' Prussia was teasing him, again, and those alabastor arms had gone creeping around France's waist. The thick amber smell of beer enveloped them both it was an aroma strangely inviting, for it inspired memories of long, deliciously sticky afternoons. Gilbert's warm, slick tongue was dancing around Francis' earlobe, giving him a thrill.

''Non. Non, stop eet. We are talking about love, not war. So I cannot geeve up. Mon dieu ! I am France ! _France ! ''_

''Come to bed vith me—''

''You are drunk—''

''So ?''

''I 'ave to keep searching-''

''You know where he ees. Stop beink such a dummkompf.''

''… I don't. ''

''Ja. You do. ''

'' 'e promised me 'e wouldn't—''

''Antonio promises a lot of zhings, but when eet comes to Lovino—''

''Stop eet. _S'il vous plaît.'' _

''Ack, ja, ja.'' He gestured dismissively, but then his large cool hands found France's stomach. His tongue was still flicking at France's earlobe, but it had begun its familiar, fiery path down his neck and throat, so that France began to feel weakened. Whatever flimsy layers of sexual will France had crumbled like a wall of dry straw. His heart yearned for Antonio's touch, but in the man's absence… ! Gilbert was a fine replacement, and he had served faithfully for many months now. ''Speaking of var, you need more cannons on zis silly leetle ship all zis gold und lace—eet's stupid und unawesome.''

''Eet suits moi. ''

''I'll geeve you zat.''

''Cannons are ugly, non ? I got rid of a few of zem.''

''Just like ze ridiculous leetle girl you are.'' Those pale and searching lips had found his shoulders when had he so deftly peeled away France's clothes ? How exquisite ! Before he knew it, Francis was pressed against the helm, long and elegant legs wrapped around Gilbert's waist, while kissing the captain with hot, ravenous abandon.

''You'll be gentle zis time, non ?''

''Eh ?''

'' _Vous__idiote__magnifique !_ _Gentle._ I still 'ave ze bruises from last time.''

''Kesesese~ ! You like zem. ZEY ARE MARKS OF AWESOME.''

''_Oh mon dieu…. '_' He, nearly-nude and giggling like a school girl indeed, could barely offer half-hearted protest or direct one of his crew to the helm before Gilbert had swung him over his shoulder and carried him off to the captain's quarters.

Gilbert was expert at making a mess of things he made a mess of Francis the entire evening. The experience was a wonderful salve, as always. If France were wounded, he was soothed by those bruising kisses, that rough and tortured breathing, those nails digging so deeply into his flesh that they left scarlet half-moons in his sides. Gilbert sank his teeth into every inch of Francis's body, so that the Frenchman ached with pleasure. Their leaking, loud, raw, and sticky love-making lasted long into the night. He imagined the ship rocked with their passions. He could not tell the difference between their shivering ecstasy and the rocking of the waves. They lay together afterward, thoroughly spent. Gilbert was gazing at him with those blood-red eyes, giving him a queer look that Francis could not place. France lit a cigarette.

''_Merci, mon ami.''_ He took a long drag on the cigarette and watched the blue-gray smoke rise to the ceiling like delicate spiderwebbing. Gilbert grunted.

''For vat ?''

'' 'elping me forget.''

''Ack…_Francis…_''

'' 'e told me 'e loved moi. So eet's nice to forget even my own name for a leetle while, non ?'' He paused, ''Zhough I guess eet would be nice to 'ear eet again….''

''Du are such a dummkompf. ''

He sat up suddenly, so that their lips were inches from one another, and Francis was lost in ruby red depths for several moments. The tantalizing heat of his mouth was maddening.

''What do you m—''

But he did not have time to speak. At that moment, the ship gave a violent lurch so that they were thrown from the silk-sheeted bed. There was an ominous rumbling in the distance, an inhuman howling and groaning. Explosions rattled the windows and shook the boat to its bones. The two scrambled for their clothes, even as the crew came to shout :

''Ze British ! Ze British are 'ere !''

''Oh mon dieu ! Oh mon dieu ! Zat dick ! 'e would attack moi now ?''

Outside, the sea was churning with a mad determination the tip of every wave burned white hot, the steel-blue sky was thick with black smoke and raging red flames. Amongst the chaos, manifesting from the madness, was a gray British man-of-war, its cannons roaring.

''Fuck ! _Fuck !_ Not een zis dinky leetle ship—not now—fuck ! I know he vas pissed after—but not enough to- _fuck !''_ Gilbert, suddenly in his element, turned to the crew and began shouting orders in a rough, German accent that was somewhat arousing. ''ALL HANDS ON DECK. LET'S SHOW ZESE MOZERFAWKERS ZE MEANINK OF PAIN. BLITZKRIEG, YOU SONS OF BITCHES.''

Watching Gilbert through a veil of rain and smoke and fog, France felt disconnected from everything and everyone. It was as if all of his past had come to him, a monstrous nightmare, to wrap chilled fingers around his throat and crush his voice. He could not speak. He could only look at the giant ship and feel regret churn and claw at his stomach. He hadn't found Spain. And now the remnants of a passionate love transmorgrified into something more terrifying and despicable threatened to thoroughly end him. He hadn't found Spain. Maybe he would never find Spain…. Maybe Spain did not wish to be found….

Several shots barrelled into the side of the ship, and it groaned painfully.

''Mon poor ship ! Oh, you poor zhing !''

What cannons remained were spewing fire on Prussia's ragged command the man-of-war, undeterred, was drawing close, its burning Union Jack whipping in the searing wind.

''IS HE FAWKING INSANE ? ZAT TEA-DRINKING PANSY BASTARD IST GOINK TO RAM US ! FRANCIS, GEET UP. GEET UP NOW. VERDAMMT EEF VE VEREN'T IN ZIS SHITTY SHIP-'

''I—can't- !''

''FRANCIS—''

There was a gaping hole in the side of the gilded ship, a hole like a monstrously wide fly-riddled mouth. They were sinking. The black waves rose, gigantic dark arms, and crushed them.

Francis awoke, loosely dressed, in a grand white room, in a comfortable egg-shell colored canopy bed. To his left, a huge gossamer-curtained window was open to a bright, dusty day. Familiar blue mountains were in the distance, the warm aroma of corn and tomatoes was thick in the air, and outside, just beneath the balcony, a sultry salsa was playing. The notes hung like lace in the air. Happiness caught in his throat. He didn't dare hope—he didn't dare. He sank back into the pillows, but even they belied his desires—they smelled so much of—

''Ah ! Mi amor ! You are awake !''

Antonio entered the room. He was dressed simply, in a white shirt and black, fitted trousers, but mon dieu ! He was so brown and healthy looking—like a succulent bit of caramel ! His smile, wide and carefree, was bright and unassuming. Any distrust that France harboured for the man fell away. He came to sit on the edge of the bed, still smiling.

''Where- ?''

''You are in Madrid, amigo. Where else ?''

''I MEAN where 'ave you been, you stinking cheat ? You 'ave been with zat… zat… non. Don't tell moi. I don't want to 'ear eet !'' He was getting emotional again, placing his hand over his forehead and sinking into the pillows. His tears came hot and fast, his body racking with terrible sobs. ''I 'ave been looking for you…''

''Francia, listen to me—''

''Zis is a dream, non ? Or per'aps I am dead ?''

''No, mi amor. This is no dream. Y, you are not dead either.''

'' Ah ! Where is Gilbert ?'' He sat bolt upright in bed, feeling Prussia's absence like a hole in his heart. ''Gilbert… !''

''Calm down, Francia. He is here, too. He's doing quite well actually. He is currently eating me out of my own casa. I think he might have some sort of vendetta or something.'' He laughed again, charmingly, so France could feel his knees weaken. He turned his face away, but, before long, he felt Spain's rough fingers in his hair. ''Forgive me, Francia. I was… I was with Lovino. Pero, it's not what you think !''

''Lies !''

''I would never lie to you, Francia. You know that.'' He was wounded. France was happy for that. He kept his eyes averted a little longer, though it killed him to do so. They sat in silence for a while. Then : ''He needed my help, Francia. So I went to him. He's been having some trouble with the Turks, you know ? I had to… he needed me. If Canada called for you, if he needed you, you would—I know you would. Right ? He and I are over. I don't love him like that. Not any more. I love—I love…. But, when I was done…. then… you… '' He stopped, struggling with himself and looking for the right words. ''I am glad you all right. I set that pendejo England straight for you.'' France could no longer resist he looked at Spain, at that tender bow of a brown mouth and that restless mop of dark hair and those gleaming, sensual green eyes.

'' 'Ow deed you know I was in trouble ?'' he asked softly, relaxing into the fingers curling into his blond locks. '' 'Ow deed you find moi ?''

''Francia, '' Antonio began, a knowing smile curling his lips, ''while you were searching for me, I was searching for you.''

''I thought I'd lost you—I thought I'd lost you to—''

''Never—''

He was crawling into bed now, nipping gently at France, straddling him, kissing his ears and neck and throat, pulling desperate fingers over his chest and stomach, finding his most sensitive areas with ease—it was like being baptised and born anew ! How right it was ! How sacred to be in those brown arms once again !

''You will never lose me. Te amo…''

Francis felt himself disappearing into Antonio he was losing himself in those seductive kisses, he was fading, and in the fade, he was found.


End file.
